Addicted To The Hunt
by Snowflake Flower
Summary: Slight Grilo. A drabble speculating why Graverobber sells zytrate.


**Addicted To The Hunt**

Addiction. Graverobber had no particular opinion of it. If anything, he welcomed addiction with open arms. After all, his business depended entirely on addiction. The glowing blue liquid that came in a little vial. The glowing blue liquid that had hordes of desperate women clinging to his legs, begging for a hit and paying in any way they could (by money or by flesh, Graverobber had no particular preference). Ah, zytrate. Such a glorious thing, don't you think?

Graverobber would say otherwise.

Despite already burying his entire body into the business of drugs, Graverobber actually never liked his little blue product that worked as a light bulb. He dared not to try it himself, not because a good dealer never does his own stuff, but simply because he's seen what it does to his customers. Panting like little whores as they clung to him for a hit, willing to do anything for a spark of his gun… it sickened him. But the money was good, so why would Graverobber care?

Only it's not the money he's after. Graverobber cares little for the wad of cash deposited in his hand every time he fired his gun. Graverobber had small interest for the brief escape of reality in the form of supple flesh. No, money and sex was only icing on the cake of his career as an underground drug lord. It was only the tip of the iceberg.

His real thrill was the hunt.

Prowling through the darkness, a light hum always at his lips as he casually made his way around the graves. Graverobber delighted in the heavy scent of death lingering in the air; delighted in dancing on the corpses buried under him. And most of all, loved the rush of adrenaline that circled through his veins when the alarm for grave robbers goes off. He loved ducking behind tombstones when the security lights flashed a little too close, loved committing illegal acts knowing he could easily get away with it. (Gencops were a little dense in the head, compared to Graverobber).

The drug dealer whistled a light tune, prancing into the graveyard as he went searching for a coffin with a nice corpse. His boots made no sound as he stepped over the malnourished dirt. The soles of his boots were stamped all over the graveyard, somewhat to confuse the guards but mostly because Graverobber liked taking the scenic route. His ever-crooked smirk was there, hands tucked into the pockets of his trench coat playing with an empty vial. Soon it would be filled with that glowing blue liquid, and soon Graverobber would have hordes of addicts at his feet, begging him for the tiniest dose.

His smirk fell a little, but Graverobber ignored the tiresome thought of selling the tiresome drug and instead focused on the hunt.

As Graverobber knelt beside a rotting corpse, watching the empty vial fill with swishing blue zytrate, he wondered a little about addictions. They were all-consuming, swallowing everything a person ever possessed that was slightly sane (though Graverobber wondered if there was such a thing as sane in this world). A curse, he would call it. A disease that once grabbed onto, you could never let go of.

"Graverobber?"

He looked up to the young girl standing above him, clutching the strap of her satchel as hints of fear flickered across her eyes. The alarms began to blare, and she gasped and crouched down next to him, head jerking this way and that. Graverobber stared at her for a couple seconds, the vial already full of his merchandise. He smirked, yanking the needle out of the corpse's skull before grabbing his companion's wrist and standing up, pulling her along with him. Her arm was almost deathly cold, but felt oddly right in his grasp. She shrieked a little at the unexpected movement, alerting the guards to their position.

Graverobber smiled wickedly.

Addictions are evil, unstoppable. They consume your thoughts and your actions; they give you no say in what you do or what you feel. And worst of all, you begin to _need _your addiction; you realize that no matter what you try, there isn't any way you can live without it.

But as Shilo panted heavily, her long legs stumbling awkwardly as she ran behind him, Graverobber was starting to wonder if that was such a bad thing.

_

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A/N _This was inspired when I thought about why Graverobber sells zytrate. Just a drabble, but please review and tell me what you think!

Snowflake Flower


End file.
